Life Painting
by Random Draconic
Summary: What's wrong with recording the universe in art?


Ryou stared at the blank canvas that stood before him. A beautiful expanse of white, the fabric stretched tight on the wooden frame it had been sold on. Nothing marred its snowy surface, save the shadows that formed as a natural side effect of the room's lighting. The white-haired man saw no purpose in purchasing the bright halogen lights that other artists praised so highly. Shadows were a part of nature, and he took great pride in his adherence to the natural flow of things. He was an artist because he loved nature, loved putting the flow of life and the universe on canvas with his brushes and hands. There was money to be made in art, true, but only if one's art was considered "edgy" or "breathtaking" enough to garner attention from the public. Ryou's art was neither. It was merely art.

The artist smiled suddenly, having found inspiration for this magnificent blank canvas at last. He turned around to the small table where his tools lay, and picked up a closed ceramic container. Ryou gave it a small shake, then frowned. It was nearly empty, and, from the sound of it, nearly dried up, too. This would not do. Once he began the piece, he could not stop. Not to eat, not to sleep, not even to use the toilet.

The frown vanished as the white-maned man sighed, replacing the smile on his face. "The constant struggle of an artist," he said to no one in particular as he set the ceramic jar back down on the table. "Inspiration can appear at any moment, and vanish just as suddenly. Yet, what can be done without the proper tools, the perfect medium?" Truly, it was a curse, to be so talented and yet have such problems prevent him from reaching his full potential as an artist. He sighed again, shoving his hands into the pockets of his trousers as he walked away from the canvas. He'd have to pick up more of his paint before he could commit his vision to it.

It was a good thing that he had more of it down in the basement, just waiting for him to open it up. Ryou laughed at his own private joke, taking one hand out of his pocket to run it along the wall, just below where some of his favourite pieces hung. The subject changed from canvas to canvas; one portrayed a star-splashed sky above an ocean, while another showed a winged creature lying in the middle of a burning semitruck. He did not have a single favourite among these paintings. They had all attracted his interest and affection, and commanded the attention of anyone who entered the small house he lived in. Not that he had many visitors; Ryou preferred to keep to himself, seeing the influences of company as detrimental to his work. He had his art, his music, and his books to keep him company; his parents supported him post-humously with a generously-sized trust fund that kept him comfortable. He had no debts, as the house had been part of his inheritence, and spent precious little money. His only expenses were food, utilities, and art supplies. Occasionally, Ryou would have to purchase a new shirt or pair of pants, but it was such a rare occurrence as to hardly matter at all.

Pulling a keyring from his pocket, the pale-skinned artist fingered the cool metal before selecting a small, silver one from among three other keys. He tapped long, slim fingers against a sturdy door, hearing the pleasant sound of wood echo, before redirecting his attention to the padlock securing the door. He inserted the key into the small, almost inconspicuous lock, placing it carefully in his pocket before twisting the door open. Ryou preferred keeping his basement securely closed. If the door was left open, or was not firmly shut and locked, then it could let in a draft, or, horror of horrors, risk damaging the art supplies kept in his basement. And, while some would argue that keeping his door shut _and _padlocked was overkill, it made Ryou feel so much safer to have the padlock securing the entrance to the basement.

The door opened when Ryou tugged at the handle, and he hummed to himself as he started down the stairs. Soon, he would have a fresh supply of colour for his canvas, and his inspiration would live for all eternity. Or until the canvas was destroyed. Either way, it would be given life and he, Ryou Bakura, would be one step closer to achieving his dreams of artistic godhood. He would be a creative saviour to this world, so drab and full of clinical opinions, with its frigid ideals and unyielding rules. The white-haired man clenched his right hand into a fist at the thought. People didn't understand art, didn't understand what being a visionary was about! If one's ideas did not hold to what society believed to be acceptable, then one was mocked as a lunatic, an eccentric at best and mentally unstable at worst.

"Fools," Ryou hissed as he reached the bottom of the staircase. "Damned men passing judgement on the damned." He grabbed a metal crowbar from a shelf near the bottom stair, holding it so tightly that his knuckles turned as white as his hair. The frown that had appeared on his face vanished as he turned around a corner and his target came into view. Rather, he began to smile in such a cheerful, benign manner that he could have been a pleasant neighbour passing out candy to trick-or-treaters on Hallowe'en night.

"And how _have _we been doing today?" He asked the man sitting on the floor, bound against a wooden support post. He wsn't particularly young or old, this man, appearing to be in his mid-thirties, with a receding hairline and skin flushed pink with fear. He wore nothing save a pair of boxers, a white wifebeater tanktop, and a clean white gag in his mouth. His eyes widened in fear as the man stared upwards at the well-dressed artist before him, and a strangled noise came out of his mouth.

Ryou tutted in disapproval. "Oh, come now, Aaron. Someone like you should be able to respond properly to such a simple question. You _did _make a point of asking it of me every week, after all." He crouched down so that his face was closer to that of his victim, causing the other man to attempt to squirm away. The white-haired man laughed, reaching out the hand not clasped around the crowbar to stroke the side of Aaron's face in a tender gesture, a move that lost its meaning entirely when one observed the expressions on the two men's faces.

"Oh, Aaron, Aaron," the captor cooed. "You were such a good therapist. I did enjoy my sessions with you, you know. I think you really _cared_ about my well-being. It was so sweet of you to pay me a housecall this morning." Ryou's smile faded, replaced by a sneer. "Your poor troubled artist client, living his life in seclusion without a friend in the world. Of _course_ you would be worried that I was more unstable than you'd initially thought. My paintings were just too _visceral _for your tastes, weren't they?" The hand on the therapist's cheek squeezed, holding the man's face in a vice-like grip. Aaron whimpered, the fear in his eyes growing more palpable. The artist licked his lips, shoving the man's face away as he stood upright, still staring at his prisoner with a look of disgust as he hefted the crowbar in his hand.

"Society is really a vindictive judge of character," Ryou continued, swinging the metal bar back in forth slowly. "My medium, my subject matter... they're too _dark_ for it to understand. And so, I am marked as 'mentally unwell' by society and its judges." The expression on his face twisted, and he lashed out with the crowbar, landing a solid blow against Aaron's arm. A sick _thwack _could be heard, as well as a muffled howl of agony. The artist laughed, continuing his flow of thought. "My art is merely a representation of life, of the energies of the universe!" Another swing of the crowbar, this time hitting the bound counsellor's left leg. The pained sounds of the man increased in volume and pitch, as did Ryou's laughter and words above the din. "Tell me, what is so sick about that, Aaron?" He asked the victim as the metal smashed into his ribs, and the yowls grew louder still. A wild swing caused the crowbar to collide with Aaron's knee. "Tell me!" Ryou demanded, the laughter suddenly gone as the gag slipped from the victim's mouth and basement filled with the sounds of agony and crunching bones.

"Tell me!" Ryou swung the metal bar into the undamaged knee cap.

"What is wrong-"

Aaron screamed as he felt his left ankle shatter.

"-with recording-"

The right shoulder sprayed blood as the iron weapon's hooked end tore through the skin.

"-the universe-"

Ryou brought the crowbar down, vertically, into the once-counsellor's groin, producing the loudest howls of all.

"-in art?"

The hooked metal collided with the man's skull, and Ryou continued hitting it, screeching as his victim fell silent. The screeching eventually dissolved into broken laughter as he leaned back, cackling madly at the ceiling above him as his victim's blood and brains lay scattered on the concrete floor. After a few minutes, the artist calmed down, and the mad laughter subsided into silence.

Ryou frowned as he stared at the mess on his basement floor. "Damn," he said in a voice that was shockingly calm. He'd forgotten the jar again. "Waste of good blood," he muttered, kicking the corpse as he went to collect the mop and bleach from a nearby nook.


End file.
